swallowed in the silence
by Dorminchu
Summary: A simple game of chance, taken one step further. Maybe a few, if we're being honest here. (Two-shot)
1. i

_a/n: Yes, I'm fully aware of the fact that I'm all but walloping a dead horse at this point, but hey, what better thing to do than be part of the problem? Also, more experimental styles/formatting, because why not._

* * *

It begins as a subtle exchange through stolen glances in inopportune places. The cause of their mutual discontention is easy to identify, yet comes slowly by her own admission.

He feels it, too.

One foggy morning she walks down the hall and notices he's following her. She lets him along for a while, then, smirking, turns down a hall and back into an empty room, only needing to wait for him to approach before she taps him on the arm and he gasps, startled.

—Annie! he says, but before he can get in another word she pulls him into the room and shuts the door, pins him against it.

—You're a terrible shadow, she says. He grins.

—I'm not trying to be a good one.

—So you're following me, now? she asks, right to the point.

—Sure, he answers. You did the same thing to me.

She tugs him down, down to the dusty floor and rolls over so she's straddling his chest.

—We'll be missed, he says.

—For a little while, she assents, glad she's wearing something a little more reasonable. His breath comes warm at her clavicle.

—Aren't there guards down the hall?

A pause.

—I can be quiet, she murmurs, and her shirt bunches around her shoulders, half-discarded.

And he knows what she's getting at. His heart skips a beat or two, and he stares at her in disbelief. She merely holds his gaze, waiting. The air smells of mold and dust and her skin.

He's tentative as he kisses the top of her head and his hands come to rest on her back, thumbs at the dip in her waist. She hums, considering him. Allows him to tug down the fabric separating them, touching skin, smooth, unrumpled. A small, furtive noise builds in her throat, extinguished when he leans up, kissing her sternum.

It's nothing new; at least, not wholly. There are parts of this that come easy, natural, others that give them respective pauses.

He's quiet as he touches her. Eerily quiet. She's curving up to meet the air when he tests her with his thumb, and her mind is hazy and her breath is a hiss through gritted teeth and she tells herself: _focus, focus_.

—Is this all right? he asks suddenly, and his voice is croaky, strained in concentration but laced with interest.

She glances up out of agitation—because she doesn't really have to say it, does she?—but he's watching her, all wide-eyed wonderment with a heady flush spanning the bridge of his nose to his cheeks, the tips of his ears, and his groin barely pressing into her naked hip and _fuck_ , it's too much to think about. She nods stiffly. He dips a finger in, gradually, then two, watching her settle.

—All right, he mutters.

It's an awkward position and his wrist soon cramps but she's rocking slowly enough that he can make do. He crooks his fingers, trying to ease the ache creeping in his muscles, and she grasps his shoulder, watching his free hand slide up her torso, stroking her side. She's soft. He sits back, watching her.

She notes he's rocking a little more urgently. She angles her hips a little differently, huffs in satisfaction.

—Ann? he mumbles, only to have her hand press firmly against his mouth. She shakes her head, eyes dark, steely. Her meaning is clear. He relents, but she doesn't remove her hand until he grabs her wrist, pulls her away. He won't take his eyes off her while she pushes down into his hand, slightly chagrined. She leans in, breath ghosting his temple.

—Don't want to be interrupted again, do you?

—You're the one making all the noise, he grumbles. She smirks.

—And you can be next.

He pauses, half inside her, genuinely unsure whether she's joking or not. She just presses back down onto his fingers, but he keeps his eyes lidded so he can watch her. She kisses his brow.

The rest comes easy. Time does not matter; eventually she curls her fingers in his hair, trembling.

—Close? he mutters, and she can only nod.

And then he's stroking her again, and she clamps a hand over her mouth when he leans back, eyes hooded in concentration. She stifles a huff into the meat of her palm and he's staring at her again like he's waiting for permission and she screws her eyes shut.

— _Eren_ , she rasps.

He slides his fingers out and her hips roll back into his stomach and he can _feel_ her. His hand flies out to grasp her waist and he grinds into that junction, and she stifles another grunt, eyes fluttering, the corner of her mouth parted in the suggestion of a smile, flushed all over. Their eyes meet briefly. She ducks her head. He's drawing circles on her skin in the gaps between their rocking until she freezes, emits a kind of muted, breathless whine, arching as he thrusts up a little more intently and he hesitates, hyperaware—the noise is alien from her throat—only to have her full weight sink down against him, and he draws her close. She shivers, arms wrapped tight around him. Soon enough she raises her head, eyes hooded, panting softly. Her mouth curls.

He jolts when her hand snakes under his shirt.

—Um, he says, and he's suddenly aware of how tight his pants are.

—I wasn't joking, she replies, voice husky.

He looks at her, pale and disheveled, hunched over him like some ethereal being. He thinks of the guards and realises he doesn't care. At least, not enough.

—Have a few minutes? she enquires, and his hand is already splayed over her back. He draws her in gently, feeling anxious.

—I'll trust you, he says quietly, and she smiles against his cheek, hand creeping up to press over his mouth, the other roaming up his chest. Her hips sink squarely onto his and he groans softly, breath hot against her palm.

—Good, she whispers.

* * *

 _A/N: Thoughts? Criticisms? Lay 'em on me; it's all appreciated!_


	2. ii

_a/n: So here's the chapter two you never asked for because I'm on my second wind and I don't know better can't stop won't stop gotta have some cohesive plot okay GO_

* * *

—You can keep it on if you want, she tells him. He's warm, tacky with sweat underneath his clothing. He mumbles something indistinct. She removes her hand. Your shirt, she informs him.

—Oh, he says, sounding confused. Why?

She thinks of the reasons for a second or two, then lets her teeth graze his jugular and he shivers.

—Never mind, she says. It doesn't matter.

He frowns, glancing down at his shirt. Her forehead bumps his chin. He's about to ask what she's doing when she leans in. They kiss. He cups her cheek, her hand slides down his chest, over his stomach. He's fumbling with his trousers, so she leans back on her knees to give him space.

A few seconds later and his pants are at his knees and he's rocking in time with her hand.

—Can I try something? she asks after a pause, tentative.

—Mm?

He's curious when she slides back, takes him in hand again and he jolts when she leans down, gently kissing the tip of him and now he's trembling, breath catching in his throat. He can't help it. Like coming in from a cold Autumn's rain; you shut the door and inside it's safe and dry but the aftershock of the chill takes over sooner or later and air freezes in your lungs, and suddenly you can't stop shivering. Except he's not cold, now.

She pauses, glances up at him, intrigued.

—Should I stop? she asks quietly. She reads shock in his expression, maybe a little awe.

Words, thoughts, these fail him. He shakes his head.

—No, he mutters, I just…. She leans up across him again. He wonders if his reaction has been misconstrued. He really hopes otherwise. Just didn't expect it, he concludes awkwardly.

—Oh, she says. Her face feels warm. In the back of her mind she wonders if this is how he felt when he was the one asking her for permission.

—I-I mean, you're fine, he adds, feeling more like an idiot with each passing second. If you still want to—to go ahead, or….

She regards him carefully. Exhales, slinks back down, breath light against his hip. Looks up at him.

—Give me the word, and I'll stop.

There's a hush in her voice, colour in her cheeks. Is it excitement, fear, desire? He doesn't know. He sits up, back pressed to the wall so intensely that he can feel the imperfections in the stone, trying to give her space, self-conscious.

—Sure, he says, nervous, maybe a little excited, trying not to show it.

She leans down, kisses him again, slower this time. Her fingers curl lower around him and he half-gasps, half-moans despite himself. She's sensible of his reactions but he doesn't push her away. Probably she's overthinking this. She sits up, readjusts, uncertain but resolute, brushes her hair from her face. Sinks down, forehead against his stomach, close, but not quite enough, and just uses her hand for a little while. He squirms and his hips press forward and she feels him twitch under her palm.

—Annie, he mumbles, almost dreamlike, and his fingers thread through her hair.

And she wants to revel in this, she wants him to say her name again, keep him squirming for a change, see how he likes it. Ask him how it felt to make her writhe. She doesn't dwell on what could have been because it is irrelevant. When she takes him in his whole body jars like he's trying to escape and pull her closer simultaneously. His breath goes all shuddery under her ministrations. She's very careful, mostly because she has no real plan in mind, but that's beside the point. She also has teeth.

His mind works slowly, sluggish like mud or molasses, and yet he is acutely aware of her, the room, everything. Her mouth is warm, he thinks, and then he thinks about how he's never really thought about that before. He supposes, hazily, it might've been the same for her when it was him doing the stuff with his mouth, and he thinks about how he registered every little noise that came out of her, every twist, every turn against him, and in his state of arousal the thought goes right to his dick.

This does not escape her notice.

Slowly, slowly, he leans in, stroking back her hair, and she pulls away, nose pressing into his thigh.

—Good? she murmurs.

He just turns his head away and his mouth into his fist. He goes tense when she resumes her business. Too much, too quickly.

—A-Annie, he hisses, grasps her shoulder. She hums softly. His voice fails him. C'mere, he manages. She sits up, releasing him.

—Close? she echoes.

Before he can retort she's straddling him again, and he curses, grinding into her hips.

—Annie, he pants, I—

She kisses him.

—I know, she whispers, slips her hand around him again, earns a strangled hiss.

He buries his face in the crook of her neck and comes. There's nothing extraordinarily dramatic, just a shudder down the length of his body, and his hips bear up hard into her thigh and then he's still. It's a while before he moves. She gasps when he rolls them over, pins her against the floor. She feels him let go, unsure why until he moves lower, hands shifting to her waist.

He hears her yelp and just _sighs_ into her heated skin, pulls her close. She is the first to push him away. He glances up, alert.

—What?

—Too much, she shudders. Her voice is shaky.

—Oh, he says, suddenly nervous. Has he done something wrong, hurt her?

She shakes her head.

—It's…it's not you, she says. I need a moment.

Relief grips him, overcoming anxiety.

—As long as you're all right, he says.

She sighs at his tone.

—I'll be perfectly fine in a little while, Eren.

He grins.

—Could ask Hange about that, you know.

She glowers at him.

—That was a joke, he adds.

 _—Finis—_

* * *

 _A/N:_ _For those of you in the audience thinking, 'gosh Dorminchu, this sure seems similar to that other story you did with these two and Hange and the sexy mishaps', well, you're right! This was basically an exercise in spiritual continuation/kicking my past self's butt in terms of, well, everything from prose to detail to character portrayal, dialogue, you name it. Consider it a follow-up of a follow-up. Hooray, headcanon!_


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